


Careful Fear and Dead Devotion

by othersideofthis (hikaru)



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014-2015 NHL Season, Career Ending Injury, Depression, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-01
Updated: 2015-08-01
Packaged: 2018-04-12 10:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4475876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaru/pseuds/othersideofthis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Why put yourself through any of this?”</p><p>“Because it’s you,” Jeff says, like it’s really that simple, and maybe it is. “It’s always been you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Careful Fear and Dead Devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Aside from the many other ways in which this is AU, this went extra AU at the precise moment that the Kings terminated Mike's contract. 
> 
> With a thousand thanks to:
> 
> Thalia, for a final read through and edit;  
> [engine](http://archiveofourown.org/users/engine), for giving me the idea that started this story, for reading along, for letting me hurl endless paragraphs of Jeff/Mike sadness at her. This is not the cute story that you prompted, but it's still a story; and  
> the phenomenal [ionthesparrow](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ionthesparrow/pseuds/ionthesparrow), whose suggestions and thoughts and careful prodding have made this fic a thousand times better than it was when I first sent it to her.
> 
> Title from The National's "Don't Swallow the Cap".

There are lots of things Jeff wanted from the season. The four-one win over the Sharks, for example, he’ll take.

The rest of it can all go to hell.

Jeff puts on a good face after the game. He gives his jersey to some kid, signs some autographs, takes some photos. It all feels a little hollow, though, and when he gets back to the locker room, he’s drained.

He answers reporters’ questions, never straying from the bland company line. “It’s disappointing,” he says. “We had a goal, we didn’t meet it, that’s what it comes down to.” Jeff runs a towel over his face and hopes that the reporters will lose interest and go away. There are other far more quotable guys in the room than Jeff, after all.

They don’t leave, though.

“The last time you missed the playoffs was--”

“My second season,” Jeff says from beneath the towel. He peeks out; the reporters are still clustered around, phones and recorders thrust out into his space.

“Can you talk about how you feel, knowing your season ends here? Does it feel different this time around?”

 _Does it feel different?_ Jeff wants to laugh. Losing _never_ feels different. Losing makes him feel like shit, same as it did almost ten years ago. He’s older, his body aches more, and knowing what _winning_ feels like means that the sting of loss settles in, quick and heavy and suffocating.

“Maybe,” Jeff says, tugging the towel down over his shoulders. “It doesn’t feel _good_. Doesn't matter if you've been in the league one year or ten. You never want to go home early.”

There’s more he could add, if Jeff wanted to give the reporters some honesty and a good quote, but he doesn’t. He knows better. Maybe back in ‘07, he didn’t. Maybe he would have run his mouth. He’s not sure, these days. A lot has changed since then.

Kopi comes into the room, and suddenly, no one’s interested in Jeff anymore. The reporters wander over to Kopi’s stall, murmuring questions about _leadership_ and _accountability_ and _exhaustion_ as they surround him.

Jeff barely represses a snort at that last one. He wants to tell these shits all about being exhausted, about playing through pain, about gathering up your broken body and pushing for all you’re worth, just to hope you cross a finish line that keeps getting further away.

He finishes stripping out of his gear, throws his towels into the laundry cart, jams everything else into his stall for someone else to clean up. Locker clean-out will be in a few days, he imagines. He’ll deal with all of it then.

*

When Jeff gets out to the lot, Mike’s leaning up against the back of Jeff’s car. Jeff takes him in from a distance -- the tense lines of his body, the pinched expression on his face -- and feels like he needs to prepare himself for an argument already. Jeff’s long been used to the dance he has to do around Mike’s anger and frustration; it just seems like he’s been doing it more often than usual since Mike came back from Manchester.

“Thought you would’ve gotten a ride back already,” Jeff says. “You didn’t have to wait.” A healthy scratch for the last game of the season; fuck, Jeff would have been out of there as soon as possible, if it were him.

Mike shrugs. “Greener offered on his way out, but...” He trails off as he watches Jeff fish for his keyfob in his pockets. “I wanted to wait,” he says. “No one else should have to--” Mike blows out a breath and pushes away from the car, leaving his thought unfinished.

"How long have you been out here?" Jeff unlocks the doors but doesn't get in yet. "Didn't see you in the room with Wealer and them, after."

"Since the empty netter." Mike's lips twist up in a smile, but it's the same blank look he's been wearing for longer than Jeff’s really been comfortable with. "Figured, no reason to wait around. What's Sutter gonna say that means anything to me?"

Jeff pulls open his door. "’Good game, good effort, take some time off, come back hard next year.’ Went a little something like that. It was an okay speech, as far as his go."

Mike snorts. "That might mean something to _you_." He opens his own door; Jeff can see his fingers grip so tight around the frame that his knuckles go white. "Come on, Carts, I'm either babysitting in Manch or watching from the couch." Mike slides into the car with a sigh and Jeff follows. "’Come back hard next year,’ _please_."

"Mike." Jeff reaches out but stops short. "You don't know--"

"Don't, Jeff." Mike shakes his head. "Never mind. Let's just -- go. Let's just go."

Jeff thinks about arguing, but now isn’t right for it. “Right,” he says. “Right, okay.”

*

They drive home in silence. Jeff doesn’t even bother to turn the radio on, not wanting to start the inevitable argument over radio stations.

Jeff sneaks glances over at Mike, who alternates between texting with someone and staring blankly out the window.

“Who’s that?” Jeff asks once Mike’s done slowly tapping out his message.

Mike doesn’t answer for a minute, and Jeff’s halfway to wondering whether or not Mike’s giving him the silent treatment when he finally responds. “One of the kids up in Manch.” He slips his phone back into his pocket. “It’s nothing.”

It’s not _nothing_ , but like almost everything else since Mike got sent down, he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Everything okay?”

Mike makes a noise, not quite agreement. “Drew had two goals. Biz got tossed.”

“Just another night in the A, yeah?”

“Something like that.” Mike’s hands curl into fists in his lap and he looks out the window.

Jeff lets the silence build around them for a few more miles before he glances back over at Mike. “You want me to drop you at--”

“No,” Mike says, cutting Jeff off quickly. “No, I’m-- I don’t want to-- we can go home, it’s fine.”

“Right.” Jeff looks straight ahead and drums his fingers against the steering wheel. “Right, we’ll just go back.” He flips on the blinker and merges, then keeps his mouth shut the rest of the ride.

*

The tension from the car ride doesn’t go away whenever they walk into the house. Jeff tosses his keys on the kitchen island and keeps walking to the refrigerator.

"Beer?" he asks, pausing with the refrigerator door open as Mike walks in.

Mike’s already peeling out of his suit as he walks past. “No, I think I’m just gonna…” He drapes his jacket over his arm and nods his head down the hall. “I’m just gonna go to bed.”

Jeff lets the refrigerator door swing shut behind him. “Mike.” He hates the whine that creeps in, even with just one syllable, but he can’t help it. “Are we gonna talk about…” Jeff waves his hands, grasping at something invisible. “This?”

“What part? Missing the playoffs? Me getting sent down to the fucking minors?” He tosses his jacket over one of the stools next to the island, then curls his hands around the edges of the granite countertop. “Being a goddamn healthy scratch in the last fucking game?” He shakes his head. “No. _No_ , we are not fucking talking about it.”

Jeff means more than that, more than just Mike’s career, more than his future with the Kings. Jeff means _everything._ Hockey, yes, but also the sadness that Mike tries to hide from everyone else, the fact that Jeff’s had to re-learn over the past few years when he has to walk on eggshells and when he can breathe easy.

He comes around the island, stopping within arm’s reach of Mike. “We need to, eventually,” he reasons.

“ _No_.” Mike’s tone is decisive and Jeff takes a quick step back, letting Mike have his space. “Not tonight. I’m going to bed.” He slaps his palms lightly against the countertops. “Let Arnold out before you come up, yeah?”

Jeff exhales, low and slow, then nods. “Alright.” His fingers fuss with the end of his tie. There’s more he wants to say, but the words won’t come out. Instead, he looks down at Mike’s hands, fingers flexing on the counter. “I’ll be quiet when I come in.”

There’s no room for any more conversation; the look Mike gives Jeff is suffocating. They stare at each other for a long moment until Mike shrugs. “Whatever.”

*

Arnold doesn’t want to stay out long, and Jeff doesn’t blame him. It’s too late to play fetch, and besides, his dad’s inside.

“Your dad’s kind of in a bad mood,” Jeff says, hands jammed in his pockets as Arnold trots alongside him. “I don’t know how to make it better. You got any ideas?”

A long time ago, Jeff _thought_ he knew how to make it better. Back in Philly, when they were young and stupid, drunk and stoned half the time, Jeff always found _something_ to excuse _the way Mike was_.

Mike’s hung over, Mike’s shoulder’s killing him, Mike’s pissed about the way the team’s playing. The media’s a bunch of dicks, Prongs is a dick, Lavvy’s a dick, Holmgren’s a dick.

There was always a _reason_ , Jeff thought back then, and so Jeff tried to distract Mike, to take his mind off of whatever was bothering him. He would tell Mike stupid stories from juniors until his voice gave out. Jeff would get Mike another drink. Jeff would get down on his knees until the only thing that mattered was Mike’s fingers digging hard into his skin, anchoring him in place.

Now, with distance and wisdom and his own half-season stint of being a miserable fuck behind him, Jeff knows that there’s not always a _reason_ , that sometimes you just wake up sad and you can’t shake it off.

Jeff _knowing_ \-- having a sliver of recognition, at least -- hasn’t made the journey any easier, especially when Mike rarely talks about it.

Arnold presses his nose against Jeff’s leg, drawing Jeff’s attention back to him. Jeff sighs and reaches down to scratch him between the ears.

“Don’t worry,” Jeff says. “It’ll be alright.”

He wants to believe that if he says it enough times, that it’ll be true.

*

Jeff strips down and slides into bed. He hesitates for a moment before curling up against Mike’s back, nose pressed against Mike’s neck.

“You’re fucking freezing,” Mike mumbles, but he doesn’t shift away. Jeff considers it a win.

“I’ll warm up.” Jeff presses his hands flat against Mike’s back; Mike shivers and wriggles back against him.

“You better.” Mike tugs the covers up higher around his shoulders and settles back in, and it’s not long before his breathing evens out with sleep.

Sleep doesn’t come for Jeff, though, not for a long time. Even though he knows Mike hates it, Jeff slips one arm around Mike’s waist and holds him close. It’s all he can do.

*

Jeff wakes up to a heavy weight across his thighs, to hands pressing down against his shoulders. “You’re up early,” he mumbles. He cracks open one eye to look up at Mike hovering over him. Jeff knows this dance, has been doing it since their first season, when Mike crawled into his bed after a shouting match on the road in Detroit and never quite left. This is what Mike does: he fights and he rages and he shuts Jeff out, and when he’s done, he asks for forgiveness in one of the only ways he knows how.

“Couldn’t fall back asleep,” Mike says. There are dark circles under his eyes; he looks _sad_ , and it’s killing Jeff.

“What do you want me to do about it?” Jeff slides one hand up Mike’s leg until his fingers are slipping just under Mike’s boxers.

Mike curls down and licks across Jeff’s collarbone. “Dunno,” he murmurs against Jeff’s skin. “You’ll figure it out.” He shifts and rolls his hips down against Jeff’s.

Jeff tips his head back and sighs. “Not mad anymore, then?”

It’s the wrong thing to say, because Mike goes still on top of him. “You think it goes away, just like that?” He sits up, but he doesn’t take any of his weight off of Jeff yet. Jeff makes a strangled noise as Mike grinds down against his dick.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Jeff says through gritted teeth. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

Mike rocks back and puts his weight on his heels; Jeff sighs in relief. “I know,” he says. He’s not looking at Jeff anymore. Lately, he almost never looks at Jeff. “I just. My head’s not on straight.”

“Hey.” Jeff props himself up on one elbow and reaches up with his free hand, fingertips fanning out across Mike’s cheek. “We’ll get it figured out.”

Mike hums quietly and closes his eyes. “You say that.”

Jeff’s fingers slide back to tangle in Mike’s hair and he tugs just sharply enough to get Mike’s attention. “We’ll get it figured out, I said.”

“Right,” Mike says. “Sure.” Jeff trails his fingers down Mike’s neck.

Mike keeps his eyes closed the whole time.

*

Mike runs hot and cold just about every day, looking like he’s going to bolt one minute and curled up against Jeff’s side the next.

At night, Mike falls into what always looks like an easy sleep. Jeff feels like maybe Mike sleeps too much, but Mike doesn’t want to talk about that.

Jeff, meanwhile -- Jeff can’t sleep. When he does sleep, he dreams about Mike, adrift without hockey. Mike, angry and wounded. Mike, a shell of himself. Jeff dreams about waking up to an empty bed, an empty house.

So, Jeff knows why _he_ doesn’t sleep. He tosses and turns until he wakes Mike up. Mike never says anything about it, but Jeff takes Mike’s elbow to the ribs for what it is and gets up.

He spends long hours out on the deck with Arnold instead, tossing a tennis ball down the way and waiting for the sun to come up.

It’s not what Jeff _wants_ , but it’s what he has.

*

Jeff’s got some potatoes going on the stove when Mike comes down in the morning. Mike’s shorts ride low on his hips and his shirt pulls up as Mike stretches his arms up over his head. Jeff’s throat goes a little dry, because if things were different -- if Mike weren’t so prickly, if everything didn’t seem so precarious these days -- he’d turn the stove off and hoist Mike up on the island and work him over, right there.

Now, Jeff doesn’t know what Mike wants.

“Morning,” Jeff says, turning his attention back to the potatoes. Mike grunts and pulls open the refrigerator. “There’s fresh juice, top right,” Jeff says. Mike makes another noise and lets the door swing shut.

Jeff glances over his shoulder to see Mike drinking straight from the bottle. “You’re welcome,” Jeff says. Mike flips him off one-handed while he drinks.

“Omelette or scrambled?” Jeff asks.

Mike shrugs. “Whatever you’re making.”

“Omelette, then.” Jeff turns up the burner, then goes back to the cutting board to finish slicing some peppers while he waits.

Behind him, Mike hops up to sit on the counter. It’s like he’s doing everything that he knows Jeff hates, just to get a rise out of him. Jeff bites down on his lower lip and refuses to say anything.

“You been thinking about Jersey?” Mike asks.

“Nah.” Jeff stares at the pile of green peppers. He doesn’t look at Mike. “Perfectly good beach house right here.”

Mike drums his heels off the cabinets. “Usually you go.”

Jeff sets the knife down flat on the cutting board, reaches over to switch the burners off, and turns around to look at Mike. “Usually _we_ go,” he corrects.

Mike shrugs. “Thought maybe you’d want to go back out on your own.”

“Why would I want to go by myself?”

Mike lifts one shoulder in response, and the casual way that he does it makes something snap for Jeff.

“Way things have been lately, looks like I can be alone here just as well as I can in fucking Jersey, so why bother?” Jeff wipes his hands on his shorts, then folds his arms over his chest. “You’ve got to figure your shit out, Mike.”

“Ouch.” Mike scrubs his hands against his face, then peers back out at Jeff, his expression gone soft. “Maybe _I_ should go out to the house, instead.”

 _Maybe you should_ , Jeff wants to say, but he knows it’s not the right answer. He walks up to Mike instead, rests his hands on Mike’s thighs, presses his face to the curve of Mike’s neck. “Don’t,” he says. “That’s not what I meant.”

Mike sets one hand on Jeff’s shoulder, fingers digging in sharp, almost enough to make Jeff wince. “I don’t know why everything is fucked up.”

Jeff knows why.

In years’ past, Jeff saw what Mike wouldn’t ever let anyone else see: the blackout curtains, the dizziness, the anger. Mike always tried to play through it, but Jeff was the one who pushed sweaty curls of hair off of Mike’s forehead whenever he hunched over the toilet in the dead of night.

Jeff was the one who had to pick up the pieces. Only, those pieces never quite fit together in the right way again, and this is the version of Mike that he’s been learning to live with ever since.

So, yes, Jeff knows _exactly_ why things are fucked up.

“We’ll get through it,” Jeff says. He pulls back and sets one hand on Mike’s jaw. “We’ve seen some shit, eh? What’s one more thing?”

“What if it’s the last thing?” Mike’s so quiet that Jeff barely catches it and it takes Jeff’s breath away.

He maps Mike’s face with his fingers, struck speechless for a moment. “Is this about hockey, or us?”

Mike closes his eyes. “Both, I think.”

In the end, it doesn’t matter to Jeff. “You think -- even after all these years, you think I’ll throw in the towel because shit gets hard? Is that what this is?”

Mike looks up at the ceiling. “You just said it yourself.” He presses his face ever so slightly into Jeff’s hand. “Shit’s fucked up. Us, hockey, whatever. You telling me you’re gonna stick around for all that?”

“Are you--” Jeff bites back on what he really wants to say-- _are you crazy?_ \--because he knows there are days where Mike feels like he is. He sighs and takes Mike’s face in his hands, forcing Mike to finally look at him. “Listen to me. If you’re in the A, or if you’re traded, or if you’re playing in a fucking rec league, nothing changes for me. You know? You get your head straight, or you don’t, but I’ll still be right here.”

Mike sighs and leans forward, resting his forehead against Jeff’s. “Why?”

“What do you mean, _why_?”

“Why put yourself through any of this?”

Jeff makes a quiet, wounded noise. Why put himself through this? Because on Jeff’s twentieth birthday, outside a roadside hotel in Grand Forks, Mike said _I didn’t get you anything_ and _is there anything you want?_ and Jeff, a little drunk on cheap beer and the thrill of playing for their country, found the courage to lean in and say _don’t freak out_ before kissing him, tentative and sweet and a little sloppy. Mike said _oh_ against Jeff’s lips and kissed him back, and ever since, Jeff’s been a little more in love with Mike every day of his life.

That’s why.

“Because it’s you,” Jeff says, like it’s really that simple, and maybe it is. “It’s always been you.” Jeff tilts his head and leans in. He hesitates, long enough to give Mike time to pull away. But Mike stays put, and Jeff kisses him, slow and careful, more deliberate than he’s been in years.

“Okay,” Mike whispers against Jeff’s mouth when they break apart. “Okay, Jeff.” He leans back and rests his hands flat on Jeff’s chest, fingers rucking up the thin cotton of his shirt.

Their breathing falls into the same pattern until Mike breaks the silence.“I do think you owe me an omelette, after all that.”

A smile tugs at one corner of Mike’s mouth. For just a moment, everything feels the way it’s supposed to.

*

Mike has good days and Mike has bad days, just like always.

On good days, he works on the crossword with Jeff over coffee; Facetimes with his parents; sneaks Arnold extra treats without making him sit in his spot first. He helps in the kitchen; he goes for runs along the beach. He tucks himself up next to Jeff in a booth at a team dinner for the stragglers still in LA, and he grins when their early departure is met with whistles and cat-calls, Jeff’s hand firm at the small of his back. He lays Jeff out in their bed and mouths _I want you_ against slick, sweaty skin.

On bad days, he doesn’t answer the phone when he gets calls; he picks fights over golf shoes left in the hallway; he forgets to eat until Jeff comes into the living room with a plate and a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He says things that break Jeff’s heart, and Jeff lets him _push_ , because there’s no sense arguing over it.

So, in a way, they’re Jeff’s good days and bad days, too.

*

Jeff’s clipping Arnold’s leash on when Mike meets him at the door with two cups of coffee.

“Want company?” he asks, and like Jeff’s going to say no?

“Sure. Just a walk to the beach and back. Let him pick up sticks or some shit,” Jeff says. Arnold’s tail thumps loudly against the floor, like he’s just realized that he’s getting two dads for the price of one on a hot June morning.

They walk in silence until they hit the beach and Jeff lets Arnold off leash to dance in the first licks of water against the sand.

“Do you think he knows?” Mike asks, hands wrapped tight around his mug.

“What’s that?” Jeff’s brow furrows as he tries to work out what Mike’s getting at.

“Arnold.” Mike gestures down the beach at their dog. “Do you think he knows what it’s been like lately?”

“Maybe? Not like I can ask. He can’t _talk_ , Mike.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Mike grins over the rim of his mug. “You know what I mean.”

Jeff considers this for a moment. “Well, sometimes, when you’re--” He hums and waves one hand, not wanting to put words to _how Mike gets_. “I think he knows to be patient. When you’re good and ready, he’ll be right there. Always will.”

He swallows and lets the silence settle around them for a moment. “I suppose,” Jeff continues, picking each word out carefully, “I suppose he’s been around long enough to know how it goes. He knows you. He knows what’s _good_ about you. He’s still gonna love you, even when it’s rough.”

Jeff’s not just talking about Arnold, and he thinks they both know it, with the way Mike’s whole body goes perfectly still.

It’s not like Mike doesn’t _know_ , it’s not like Jeff hasn’t said it before, hundreds of times in hundreds of different places -- _I love you:_ awestruck in their rookie apartment; drunk and sloppy on the shore; begging on his knees; breathless, punched out through clenched teeth in countless hotel rooms; shouted out loud, the Stanley Cup passing between them -- but the words feel heavy and loaded in Jeff’s mouth now.

Mike doesn’t say anything at first and instead reaches out, almost painfully slow, and tugs at Jeff’s arm to pull his hand away from the coffee mug. Jeff tilts his head to look down as Mike laces their fingers together. “Thanks,” Mike says. “For all that. I wasn’t sure.”

“Well.” Jeff leans over and presses a quick kiss to Mike’s temple before swaying back away. “It’s where he wants to be.”

*

Good days give way to good weeks, and sometimes it’s easy for Jeff to shove that _other_ Mike out of his mind. Sometimes, Jeff can pretend that the version of Mike that picks fights and freezes him out was just a bad dream.

Besides, Mike has a new routine and a new doctor and a new _plan_ , and all of it seems to be _working_ for once. Maybe days like this, where they’re laughing near to tears as they argue over the last scoop of ice cream, could someday be _just another day_ , Jeff wonders.

“I _bought_ the fucking ice cream,” Jeff says, trying to use his longer reach to grab the carton from Mike’s hands. “I drove to the fucking store _just_ for that ice cream, you shit.”

“And?” Mike curls his body around the carton while he reaches with one hand for the silverware drawer. “You also ate the rest of it.”

“So I should get to finish it,” Jeff points out. “Go to the store and get your own.” Jeff gives up on the carton and just goes for Mike’s free hand instead. He grabs Mike’s arm and pulls, but Mike’s got his feet planted firmly on the ground.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you to share?”

Mike’s toes squeak against the floor as he starts to slide towards Jeff. “No, they didn’t.” He tugs again on Mike’s arm, harder this time, only he does it just as Mike decides to shift his weight.

The slight movement gives Jeff the advantage, but Jeff’s overcommitted now and his feet quickly slip out from under him. “Fuck!” He lands hard on the floor, limbs sprawled out, and only barely has time to prepare for the impact of Mike, tumbling down into his lap.

The ice cream carton doesn’t quite make it; it slips out of Mike’s hand and upends itself on the floor. Mike and Jeff watch the last of the ice cream as it plops out of the container.

“Well, shit,” Jeff says.

“Now you’ve gotta go to the store again.” Mike settles himself between Jeff’s legs. “You wasted the rest of it.”

Jeff wraps one arm around Mike and pulls him in close. “Hmm. I don’t know about that.” He rests his chin on Mike’s shoulder, then turns his head to press a kiss to Mike’s jaw. “You’re the one who dropped it.”

“You made me do it.” Mike covers Jeff’s hand with his own, slotting his fingers between his. “You lose.”

“Do I?” Jeff shifts one leg to brush his toes against Mike’s calf. He lets his teeth scrape a path down Mike’s neck and presses their joined hands together right over Mike’s heart. “I don’t think I do.”

“Jeff,” Mike starts, his breath hitching. “I--”

Jeff pauses and lifts his head up. “You okay?”

Mike twists in Jeff’s arms just enough so Jeff can see his face. He’s smiling in a way that Jeff hasn’t seen in ages, wide and unguarded. “I am,” he says. “I am really, really good.”

Jeff lifts his free hand and presses his fingertips lightly against Mike’s face. “Come here,” he says. “Come here, turn around, I want--” He lets go of Mike’s hand and nudges at his side instead.

“What?” It takes some work, but Mike untangles himself and turns around to face Jeff, kneeling between his legs. “What’s up?”

There’s so much Jeff wants to say, but he doesn’t. _I love your face_ , Jeff thinks. _I missed your smile._ “This looks good on you,” he says, fingers passing over the crinkles at the corners of Mike’s eyes.

“Yeah?” Mike smiles a little broader. “It’s just something new I’m trying.”

“Well.” Jeff lets his other hand twist in the hem of Mike’s shirt. “I like it.” Mike closes his eyes and sways forward. Jeff pauses, his fingers just barely brushing against Mike’s stomach. “This okay?”

Mike presses his forehead to Jeff’s. “Yeah.” He sets his hands on Jeff’s hips, wriggles against Jeff’s touch. “Don’t stop.”

Jeff doesn’t.

*

As June settles in, Mike seems more at ease than he has been in a long while. Mike _says_ he’s fine and Jeff, deep down in his heart, wants to believe him -- like maybe time and patience and the therapist whose existence Mike only barely acknowledges, maybe _now_ , they’ve all done their job.

Mike’s phone’s been ringing all morning, and he’s been ignoring it. Jeff hasn’t minded -- for a while, he hardly even noticed the phone, what with the way Mike’s hands had been wrapped around his wrists, pinning him down as they fucked, slow and lazy, still heavy with sleep. But when they’re done and Jeff’s trying to settle back into sleep, the phone rings again.

“Are you going to answer that?”

“Nope.” Mike presses his face against Jeff’s neck. He’s dead weight on Jeff’s back, but Jeff doesn’t care. “Later.”

The ringing stops. Jeff sighs. “If it rings again, I’m answering and telling them to fuck off.”

“Whatever.” Mike bites down lightly over Jeff’s shoulder. “I mean, it’s probably my mom, so, go ahead, make it as weird as you want.”

Jeff hisses and pushes up on his elbows. “Don’t talk about your mom when you’re doing that.” He rolls his shoulders and arches into Mike’s touch.

Mike laughs, then draws his hands down the broad planes of Jeff’s back. “Hey, you started it.” His grip closes tight at Jeff’s hips, fingers slotting easily over fresh bruises from the night before. Mike bends low and presses a kiss between Jeff’s shoulders, then starts to work slowly down his spine. “You’re not going to complain, are you?”

Jeff’s fingers curl tight in the sheets as Mike moves down. “Fuck, no.” It doesn’t matter if he’s able to get it up again or not, he’s not going to say no to Mike’s mouth on him. “Take your time, though.”

“Don’t worry.” Mike pushes at the backs of Jeff’s thighs until Jeff shifts, getting his knees up under him. “I’ve got you.”

Jeff breathes in, slow and even, as Mike’s hands linger on his thighs. “Come on, Mike, don’t tease.” He inhales sharply as Mike’s teeth scrape across the rise of his hip.

“I said I’ve got you.” Mike swats lightly at Jeff’s leg. “Didn’t you just say to take my time?”

Jeff looks back over his shoulder and frowns. “Starting to think I didn’t mean it.”

“Well.” Mike draws his fingers up Jeff’s inner thigh. “We’ve got all day.”

He is right about that; Jeff’s got nothing on the agenda that can’t wait. Not when he’s got Mike’s hands locked tight around his hips like this. “You’re killing me, man,” he says before dropping his face back to the pillow. He closes his eyes and focuses on Mike, the rough rasp of his beard against his skin, the pressure of his fingertips. It’s enough to get lost in, and he’s so close to being able to let go entirely.

And then the phone rings.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” Jeff pushes himself back up and glares in the direction of Mike’s phone.

“What? Come on, I told you. Just leave it.” Mike tries to hold Jeff back, but Jeff’s too determined.

“If you’re not going to answer it, I’m going to turn it off. They’ve been calling all morning.” By the time Jeff crawls across the bed, the ringing stops. He grabs the phone and swipes in Mike’s code to unlock it. “Christ, you’re so popular today, why don’t you just call your--”

And then he stops, because he was going to make a crack about Mike never calling home, but instead, there are five missed calls from Mike’s agent.

“Agent,” he says instead, a little weakly. He flips the phone around to show Mike the long list of notifications from Pat.

Mike doesn’t look very surprised. “I wasn’t answering for a reason.”

Jeff’s mouth twists up in a smile. “I thought it was just because you had your mouth full.”

Mike ducks his head. “Well, that too.”

“You knew he was gonna call?” Jeff swipes over to Mike’s texts, full of messages from Pat asking Mike to _please_ call him.

“Figured he’d check in soon. He texted the other day, said he was talking with Dean.” Mike drags a sheet over his lap; Jeff recognizes that this is, after all, a weird conversation to have while naked.

“About?” Jeff puts the phone on silent, then grips it tight in his hands.

“Kicking the tires on a couple trades.” Mike scratches at the back of his neck. “But probably buying me out.”

It occurs to Jeff that this is probably something Mike should have told him before, but getting annoyed over it won’t help. He doesn’t say anything and decides to wait Mike out instead.

“Edmonton wanted to talk. Fourth line, limited minutes. Mostly to be around for the McDavid kid.” He shrugs. “Why anyone thinks I’m a good influence, I have no idea.”

Jeff frowns. “You were a good captain. Even with all the shit, you were good. You were _steady._ The guys in the room love you. You’d be good for those kids.”

“You don’t need to defend me. Besides, you were always better with the rookies.” Jeff’s career isn’t the one hanging in the balance, though, and they both know it. “Anyway, they probably want Dean to eat too much salary. I, uh.” Mike looks away, up at the ceiling. “I told Pat to make some calls in Europe, in case I get bought out.”

Jeff’s eyebrows creep up. This is _definitely_ something they should have talked about.

“I mean, if they trade me, they trade me; there’s not much I can do about it. I’ll go to Edmonton or Florida or whatever, whoever wants to make space for me. It’s better than the A. You know how those kids looked at me, like I was fucking washed up?” Mike glances at Jeff quickly, then looks away. “You have no idea how shitty it was, Jeff, I don’t think I can do that again. If Dean buys me out and no one wants to sign me? Not playing? I _can’t_ do it. Europe is better than not playing at all. KHL’s not everything, but it’s better than a beer league, you know? Can you imagine? Two Stanley Cups, Olympic fucking medal and all that shit, and I’m playing for a keg of beer with a bunch of guys my dad’s age? Europe might be my only chance to play again, and it’s not like there’s much keeping me here, if Dean cuts me loose.”

Jeff has _years_ of media training. Jeff is a pro when it comes to keeping his feelings hidden. So even he’s surprised when a small, strangled “what?” escapes his mouth.

Mike goes pale immediately, realizing what he’d just said. “Shit,” he says. He reaches out for Jeff, one hand hovering in the space between them. “Shit, fuck, no, that’s not -- that’s not what I meant, not you. Not this. I just meant--”

“Meant _what_?”

“If I have a chance to play, I have to take it.” Mike shrugs, looking a little helpless. “If no one here wants me, if Russia or whatever is all I get, then I have to go. And...”  He pauses and looks down at his hands. “And so, what does that looks like for us? Where does that leave us?”

Jeff doesn’t always have answers for Mike, but this one -- this one, Jeff’s got. “Mike, it doesn’t matter if you fuck off to Sweden or Russia or goddamned Antarctica next season, nothing changes for me. I promised, do you remember? I _promised_ , because you’re--” Jeff cuts himself off. There’s something big trying to push its way out, and he suddenly feels very nervous as he tries to answer Mike’s simple question. “I’m -- shit, Mike, you know I’m all in, no matter what--” Jeff leans forward, reaches one arm out, brushes his fingertips across Mike’s temple. “No matter what’s going on in there, no matter where you’re playing, or whatever’s fucking you up. I’m all in.”

Mike closes his eyes and tips his head up towards the ceiling, exhales. His fingers twist in the sheet over his lap.

“Say something, Mike,” Jeff whispers, afraid he’s said too much for once. “Please.”

“I make you put up with so much of my shit,” he says. Mike leans forward and presses a light kiss to the corner of Jeff’s mouth, then slides off the bed, picking up pieces of clothing as he goes. “Look, I just… I need time to think, before I call him. I’m going to go take a run, clear my head, alright?”

Jeff exhales. “Okay,” he says, and before he knows it, Mike’s gone and Jeff’s left staring at wrinkled sheets for far too long, and he realizes suddenly that he _hates_ it. All he hears is the sound of his own breathing, harsh and stuttering in the empty room.

He tries to imagine the room this empty all of the time -- not empty because Mike’s off in Edmonton or Skellefteå or Ufa or _wherever_ , but because Mike’s _gone_ , for good. He imagines a world where they’re not _Mike and Jeff_ anymore, and it makes him feel sick to his stomach. That’s _not_ what he wants. He hasn’t wanted anything other than being one half of _Mike and Jeff_ since that first kiss back in Grand Forks, and he can’t let Mike go another _minute_ without making that absolutely clear.

Jeff doesn’t _think_ , he just _goes._ He pulls on mismatched clothes and he doesn’t bother tying his shoes. He only barely remembers to lock the door behind him before he leaves the house.

Mike always runs the same route, so he’s easy to find, and even easier to catch up with.

Mike doesn’t move so quickly these days, after all.

Jeff’s only a little winded by the time he catches up with Mike, who startles when Jeff grabs him by the elbow.

“What the fuck?” Mike tries to keep running but Jeff keeps them in place. “What the _fuck_ , Jeff?”

Jeff doesn’t have a plan. Jeff, until right now, didn’t even know he _needed_ a plan. _Fuck it_ , he thinks. “I don’t like thinking about you not coming home to me.”

Mike rolls his eyes. “It’s just a fucking run, just clearing my head, Jeff.”

Jeff frowns. “That’s not what I mean. Let me finish.”

Mike spreads his hands, palms up. “By all means.”

“I know it’s hard, but you’ve gotta believe in me, Mike. I know what I’m getting myself into.” His hand slides down Mike’s arm until his fingers catch around Mike’s wrist. “I’ve loved you as long as I’ve fucking _known_ you, is what I keep trying to say. That doesn’t stop if hockey changes for us. You getting bought out doesn’t change that. You going to Russia, if you want, doesn’t change that. Your bad days sure don’t fucking change that. And -- and -- “

He pauses, looks at Mike, his hair a wild tangle of curls and his eyes wide. Mike’s got one of Jeff’s shirts on, the number 77 bold and bright on his chest. One of his shoes is untied. He’s covered in sweat and he needs to shave and Jeff wants him so badly that he can feel it deep down in his _bones_.

“What I’m trying to say is, just.” Jeff reaches out and tugs on the hem of Mike’s shirt. “Marry me,” he blurts before he can talk himself out of it. “Just -- fucking marry me, Mike, that’s what I’m trying to say.”

Mike is very still and _very_ quiet.

“Mike?”

“Did you just…?” Mike’s eyebrows lift in surprise. “I mean, did you mean to…?”

“Of course I fucking meant to.” Jeff frowns. “I mean, I maybe imagined this with a little more fanfare, maybe on a boat or something and not on the fucking sidewalk, but, just work with me here, will you?”

“You really want to.” He brushes one hand against Jeff’s, still tangled in his shirt. “You-- seriously?”

“What do you want, it’s not like I had time to order, like, doves or something.” Jeff shoves his free hand through his hair, exasperated. “I mean, do you want me to--?” He gestures at the ground. “You know what? Wait. Here, look...”

Jeff takes Mike’s hand in his and sinks down to one knee on the sidewalk. “When I said I was all in, I meant it, and maybe I should’ve done this a couple years ago, but here I am now, alright? I want to wake up next to you when I’m fifty and fat and bald. I think I want, like, a stupid fucking kid with a stupid hyphenated last name, I mean, if that’s something you want.” He smiles, crooked and hopeful, because he’s never fully admitted that to _himself_ , let alone Mike, but he might as well lay all his cards out now. “I want this, _us_ , if it’s perfect or if it’s a fucking trainwreck or _whatever_. So, please, would you just trust me on this and say yes?”

Mike’s quiet for a while as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “This, ah. This isn’t exactly how I imagined this would go, you know.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jeff tries not to look concerned, but he’s pretty sure he’s failed at that.

“For one, I always figured you’d have your teeth in for this conversation.” Mike smiles, just a bit, and Jeff exhales.

“Mike, if you want, I’ll get a ring and I’ll fucking do this right later, but.” He squeezes Mike’s hand. “What do you say? Make an honest man out of me or something?”

“You’re a fucking mess, Carts,” Mike says, but he’s laughing as he tugs on Jeff’s hand. “Yes, fine, yes to all of that, now come on.”

Jeff lets himself be pulled upright; he stumbles into Mike as he goes and plants his hands on Mike’s hips to steady them both. “I’m serious,” he says as he tilts his head down, pressing his forehead against Mike’s. “You want, like, a boat and doves and fireworks and shit, I’ll do it.”

Mike rises up on his toes and kisses Jeff, quick and sweet. “None of that,” he says. “I don’t need a production, honest.” He kisses Jeff again, a little slower this time. “Let’s go home,” he says when he pulls away. “I have some calls to make.”

*

Once the buyout’s official, Pat calls to talk about Mike’s options. Mike puts him on speakerphone as he sits at the kitchen counter while Jeff puts lunch together.

“I’m not getting much traction from teams over here. If you don’t want to wait for a PTO at camp, some teams in Russia are still interested,” Pat says. Jeff turns back to the stove and frowns to himself. “Sochi, Cherepovets, a couple others. I could get you in for a year, two if you want, then we can re-evaluate, see if there’s any NHL interest to bring you back home.”

Jeff turns the burner off and slides the chicken out of the pan and onto the cutting board. If he doesn’t stay busy, he’s going to interject himself into a conversation that isn’t his to have.

“About Russia,” Mike starts. “I was thinking.”

“Russia’s probably your best shot, Mike, if you want a contract now that isn’t in the minors,” Pat reminds him.

“It might be, but.” Mike worries at the simple band he’s wearing on his ring finger. “I’m, uh. Getting married. To Jeff? And it’s one thing, to play here and have people know. But over there? You know I’m not going to lie about it, if it comes up. Maybe Russia wouldn’t be the best idea anymore.”

“Well,” Pat says, then falls quiet for a very long time. Over the phone, they can hear him typing, but it’s like he’s pressed pause on the conversation for now. Jeff’s got enough time to slice up the chicken and layer it on top of their salads while they wait for Pat. He comes up behind Mike, presses a kiss to the side of his head, and slides their plates into place all before Pat says another word.

“Then, Russia’s out,” Pat finally continues. There’s more typing, and then: “I can try Germany, maybe Switzerland. Let me make some calls, tell Russia it’s not going to happen, see what I can do. I’ll be in touch.”

So, that’s settled, at least. Jeff wraps one arm around Mike’s waist, tugs him close as he ends the call.

“It’s gonna be fine,” Jeff says. “We’re gonna be fine.”

*

Mike signs in Germany. Jeff installs apps on their phones so they can learn German; Mike never uses his, but Jeff spends most of July walking around the house repeating _Ich bin ein Mann_ and _Du bist ein Junge_ into his phone until he gets it right.

“I don’t want a party,” Mike says one night, curled up next to Jeff in bed. “When I leave for Augsburg next month.”

“Alright, no party.” He tightens his arm around Mike’s chest. “Deal.”

“But.”

“But?”

Mike twists in Jeff’s arms, rolling over to face him. “Before I go, can we…” He trails off and taps his left hand against Jeff’s chest.

“Make it official?” Jeff guesses, and Mike nods.

“I don’t want it to be a big thing. I don’t want three hundred people and a shitty cover band. I just want to go to Germany knowing…” Mike closes his eyes. “If things get bad there for me. It might help, knowing.”

Jeff thinks it over. “What if it’s just us?” Mike opens his eyes and leans back, watching Jeff carefully. “Us and someone to make it official and, like, Arnold. We can do a family thing later. This is just for us.”

“You sound like you’ve already got an idea.” One corner of Mike’s mouth tugs up in a smile.

“I think I know a guy.” He sets his hand over Mike’s left, runs his fingers over Mike’s ring. “I’ll make a call. Let’s do it.”

*

Jeff waits until Mike goes out to an appointment to call the only person he knows who can marry them on such short notice.

“I need you to do something for me,” he says when the line picks up.

“I swear to God, Carts, I’ve been doing the work-out plan the trainers put together for me,” Tyler says. Jeff can practically hear him rolling his eyes.

“No, that’s not -- I need a favor.” Jeff pinches the bridge of his nose and wonders why, out of all the people he knows who are still in town, only _one_ has ever been weird enough to get internet ordained.

“Oh, so it’s like _that_.”

“I need -- ugh. I need you to marry me.”

“Uhh.” Tyler pauses. “I mean, I like you and all, Carts, but I think I’m a little out of your league.”

“For fuck-- come on Toff, that’s not--” Jeff sighs. “You did that internet priest thing, didn’t you?”

“I’m a certified minister, thank you very much, but I’m still not into you like that. Besides,” Tyler adds, “pretty sure Rick’d kick my ass.”

Jeff makes a desperately annoyed noise. “ _Christ_ , Toff, not you and me. I need someone to, like, officiate a thing. Sign some papers, for me and Mike.”

Tyler laughs in delight. “Oh! You finally put a ring on it?”

“I am _never_ passing to you again,” Jeff vows.

“Come on, Carts, loosen up, I’ll do it,” Tyler says finally, when he’s done laughing.

This is his life, asking his rookie to come to the beach, say a few words, sign his name on some papers. If you would have asked Jeff back in Philadelphia if this is what he envisioned for himself, he would have laughed until he cried.

Now, well.

It’s all for the best.

*

Tyler shows up to the house two weeks later, just before sunset. “I’m kinda nervous,” he admits as he perches on the edge of the sofa.

“ _You_ are?” Jeff stops fidgeting with his tie to stare at Tyler. “Literally all you have to say to make it legal is, like, ‘I now pronounce you married’. Sign your name on a paper, that’s _it_. You’re gonna make this harder than it needs to be.”

“But I want it to not suck.” Tyler turns over a stack of notecards in his hands. “I wrote down some shit, but like, what if it’s not good enough?”

Jeff sighs, then crosses the room to ruffle Tyler’s hair. “It’ll be great, whatever you say.”

*

In hindsight, Jeff should have been more specific.

*

Jeff and Mike stand in front of Tyler on the beach. Arnold circles behind them until Jeff points at the ground between them and Arnold lies down in a heap.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today--”

“Seriously?” Mike’s eyebrows creep up. “It’s us and a dog, kid.”

Tyler frowns. “Shh, come on, I’ve got a _thing_.”

“He’s got notecards and everything,” Jeff points out. “Let’s see where he goes with it.”

Mike rolls his eyes, then gestures broadly at Tyler. “Proceed.”

Tyler clears his throat and starts again. “We are gathered here today to celebrate your marriage, and by _we_ , I mean you guys and me and a dog. When I was asked if I’d officiate, I was like, super excited to get to do this for Rick and my dad here, and--”

“Oh my god.” Mike tips his head up to the sky. “Oh my _god_.”

“Jesus Christ,” Jeff mutters. He reaches out and takes Tyler’s notecards and skips ahead halfway in the pile, then hands them back. “Just skip to the end, will you?”

“Fine.” Tyler looks down at his notecards, then tosses almost all of them over his shoulder into the sand. “You’ve got rings, right? You’re at least doing that the normal way?”

Jeff grins. “I guess,” he says, then nudges Arnold with his toes. “Hey, kiddo,” he says, gesturing with his hand to get Arnold to sit. “You’ve got something for me there.” He crouches down and tugs on a ribbon on Arnold’s collar, releasing a small box into his hand.

He doesn’t realize until he stands back up that both Mike and Tyler are staring at him. “Your dog,” Tyler says, not even bothering to hide his smile, “is your ring bearer.”

“Obviously,” Jeff says. He pops the box open and hands it to Tyler. “Here, hold this.”

“I think I have notecards for this part,” Tyler says, holding the rings out. “The whole, ‘with this ring, I promise blah blah blah’ part?”

“Skip straight to the end; we’ve got this,” Jeff says as he lifts Mike’s ring out of the box. “Will you?” he asks Mike as he takes his left hand. “Can I?”

Mike nods; he stares at his hand as Jeff works the ring over his finger. It’s the same ring Mike’s been wearing for the past month, already scratched and nicked up, and Mike’s still staring at it like it’s something new and precious.

He looks at his hand for a long time before he takes the second ring from the box and reaches for Jeff’s hand. Mike’s mouth moves but he can’t seem to find words, so instead he just arches his eyebrows.

“Like you even have to ask,” Jeff says, and Mike smiles and slides the ring home.

“Anything else?” Tyler asks.

Jeff shakes his head. He doesn’t look away from Mike, he doesn’t move, he barely breathes. “Last notecard, Toff.”

Tyler throws the rest of the notecards up in the air. “Right. So, by the power vested in me by the state of California and also the internet, I now pronounce you actually, legally, really weirdly married. Please make out now.”

And Jeff and Mike don’t need to be told twice on that one -- not today, not here, not now.

*

Jeff watches Mike’s games when he can. He learns more about computers than he ever wanted just to get the streams working, but there Mike is, with the too-familiar _18_ on his back, grinding it out on the fourth line.

He looks good because he’s _Mike_ , because Jeff loves him, but watching from a distance, Jeff realizes that Mike still looks out of place, a step slow and out of sync with the other guys.

Sometimes, Jeff’s glad when his own schedule keeps him from watching.

*

Mike takes a hit to make a play, that’s normal. That’s _Mike_ , tenacious, like a dog with a bone he won’t give up to _anyone_.

Only, it’s not a _clean_ hit -- it’s one that has Jeff yelling about a boarding penalty to his empty house. Mike’s head slams back against the ice when he goes down. He doesn’t get right back up afterwards.

That’s _not_ normal.

Jeff pitches forward on the couch and grips the corners of his laptop, like holding on tight will make Mike get up faster.

“Come on,” Jeff whispers, and Arnold must hear the panic in his voice because he trots over and noses at Jeff’s leg.

Mike staggers up to one knee. He drops his stick, shakes off his gloves, clutches onto the boards to pull himself up.

He takes one shaky step forward before his legs go out from under him. Jeff thinks someone must finally notice, because play gets whistled dead and the opposing goalie comes out of his net to circle slowly away from Mike. Mike pulls his helmet off, then presses his palms flat against the ice. He looks like he’s thinking about getting back up for a moment, just as one of his teammates reaches him.

“Shit,” Jeff says. He looks away. He has to look away. “Shit, Mike.”

*

“I’m not going to finish the season” is the first thing Mike says whenever Jeff answers the phone.

It’s maybe the only smart thing that Mike’s said about a head injury in his whole life.

“Are you coming home?”

Jeff’s not getting his hopes up. He knows what leaving Germany means: it means probably ending his contract, it means that Mike’s playing days are most likely done.

“When they clear me to fly,” Mike admits. “Specialists are better at home, so.”

Jeff doesn’t want to ask, he doesn’t want to know, but: “How bad is it?”

Mike sighs, and the answer’s there in his broken, ragged exhale. “It’s never been like this before.”

“Come home,” Jeff says -- begs, more like. Pleads. “Come home.”

*

Years ago -- practically a lifetime ago -- Jeff stepped off a plane and Mike found him, brought him home, took care of him. Mike had kissed him in the car before they’d even pulled out of the airport lot, and then Mike drove back to his house, hid their phones, and kept him in bed for as long as they could get away with.

Jeff had a new team and Jeff was starting to remember why he loved playing hockey and Jeff had Mike again.

Now, Jeff’s standing in LAX and there’s Mike, moving slow, sunglasses on, ballcap pulled low over his eyes.

“Hey.” Jeff takes Mike by the elbow, needing to touch him, needing to know he’s _there_.

“Everything hurts,” Mike says. “I’m so tired.” He leans into Jeff for the briefest of moments.

“I know. Let’s get your bag.” Jeff takes Mike’s hand in his. He doesn’t care who sees.

Mike stepped off a plane and Jeff’s found him; Jeff is going to bring him home and take care of him.

“Come home,” Jeff says, and Mike nods, just once, and that’s all there is to it.

**Author's Note:**

> Come join me on [Tumblr](http://othersideofthis.tumblr.com/) for more shouting about dumb hockey players.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Careful Fear and Dead Devotion [fanmix]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5999332) by [protect_rosie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/protect_rosie/pseuds/protect_rosie)




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